A poem a day until my fortieth birthday.

320 – The Dusty Hotel

Poem number 320
.The Dusty Hotel
.
Twelve solid floors of dusty old rooms
Not one has a bathroom ensuite
They all have grey curtains and grey covered lamps
And grey lumpy dust swathes your feet
The sunlight avoids coming in through the grime
That coats every window with spite
The air is as arid as dusty old boots
There are unexplained noises at night
The Landlady grins with solicitous eyes
Her hands hidden always in fox
Her husband skulks meekly through dust laden halls
Wearing brown dusty trousers, and socks
Don’t get up in the night, never open your eyes
Pay no heed to the creaks in the floor
A sharp strangled yell and a thump and a thud
Are just things you should try to ignore
It’s cheap, and it’s simple with no strings attached
So sleep tight, you can leave in the morn –
Assuming of course that you live through the night
To the sweet, muted dusty old dawn.